Friday, 30 May 2014

The voice was soft, gentle, almost hypnotically so, the honeyed tones beckoning, promising.

The reply was tenuous, nervous. “What will I find on the path?”

“On the path you will find love, trust, compassion. The twists and turns will reveal many acts of kindness and selflessness. Amongst the wayside rocks you will discover humility, patience and peace of mind. Beneath the overhanging branches you will be able to lead the way of life that has been denied you.”

“But I have done some very bad things in my life, I won't be allowed to follow the path.”

“No-one is denied.” Came the gentle response. “It is never too late to change, to see the light.”

“People will not accept me because of my appearance, they will be repelled, and scorn me.”

“That will not be so, they will see beyond your outer self, they will look into your heart, seek the beauty inside.”

“Will I find any chocolate on the path?”

“What?”

“I said, will I find any chocolate on the path?”

“Err... yes... yes... I believe you may find some chocolate as you follow the righteous path.” Came the slightly dismayed voice.

“Lots of chocolate?”

“Well... err... it's difficult to say just how much chocolate a soul may come across on the road to redemption.” The honeyed tones of the voice began to harden slightly.

“Look, I'm not embarking on any path, road or trail, to redemption, righteousness, or anywhere else unless there is going to be plenty of chocolate on the way. So will there be lots of chocolate or not?”

“Yes, I believe there will possibly be lots of chocolate.” The voice took on an edge of impatience.

“You promise? That there will be chocolate, and lots of it?”

“Yes!” A tone of anger crept into the voice.

“Say it then, say you promise me that there will be lots and lots of chocolate. Enough to make me sick.”

“Very well then. I promise that on the path you will find lots and lots of chocolate, enough to make you sick. Enough to fill your belly thousands of times over. Enough to choke you, you greedy, self-centred, sweet-toothed, gluttonous git. Now get on that goddam PATH!!”

Friday, 2 May 2014

“Okay, okay, I get the idea. No success yet then. What methods have you tried?”

“Well, firstly we put him through four days of sensory deprivation, to soften him up a little. He just sat cross-legged with his eyes closed the whole time, with an annoyingly serene smile on his face.”

“Did you try wiring him up?”

“Yeah. The electric shock seemed promising at first, he moaned and writhed a lot, it took us several hours to realize he actually found it sexually stimulating.”

“What about water boarding? That always does the trick.”

“Yeah well, we poured several gallons over his face, he just slurped it up through the towel as fast as we could pour, the end result being we had to mop up several gallons of piss too.”

“Rubber hose?”

“Done it. He's a bit thick skinned, it just bounced off.”

“Awkward standing positions?”

“Done 'em. He just looked bored the whole time.”

“Threats towards his family and friends?”

“He's an orphan, and if he has any friends we don't know of them.”

“The comfy chair routine?”

“Er, no Sir, I haven't heard of that one.”

“Jackson, that was a joke, you moron.”

“Oh, uh, right Sir.”

Time was running out, we needed those answers. I opened the door to his cell and walked inside. He was sitting on the chair, hands clasped in his lap, he looked rather calm for someone in his predicament.

“Okay Bozo, you are going to start talking, now I'll start off nice and easy, where is the safe house they took our man to?”

“It's on the north side of town, in the Crawford district, number thirty seven Bempton Close, the house with the blue door.”

I stared at him in disbelief, they had been working on him for seven days and hadn't got a shred of information out of him, and here he was singing like a canary just because I asked him.

“What security is there in the house?”

“Three men armed with Glocks, two downstairs, and one in the bedroom with the prisoner. The number for the alarm system is 4906, and there is a spare back door key under the plant pot beneath the window.”

I couldn't believe how easy this was. A thought suddenly struck me, I walked back out of the cell.

“Jackson?”

“Yes Sir?”

“While you've had this guy here, have you actually asked him any questions?”

Welcome to The Twisted Quill

On here you will find my flash-fiction. Short stories of 1,000 words or less. Ranging in genre from Sci/fi - Horror - Humour - Crime - Slice of life - and occasionally, Gross+Grisly. All comments received are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading.